


Cream Tea

by okapi



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Anal Sex, Crack, Creampie, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Orgy, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 04:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16360637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Bertie finds himself growing disenchanted with the Drones' Cream Tea.PWP. Crack. Description of Drones orgy + Bertie/JeevesFor Kinktober Day 13 - Creampie





	Cream Tea

“May I be of assistance, sir?”

I don’t know rightly know how long I’d been standing there, ogling the raiment, before Jeeves stepped in, casting himself in the role of the fairy godmother opposite my Cinders.

“I’ve nothing to wear, Jeeves,” I cried.

“You have a number of fine suits, sir,” Jeeves replied evenly.

“True, but…”

“What is the occasion—if I may ask?”

Jeeves tacked on the last tactfully. It would be unseemly to grill the y.m. on his movements like an aunt or a rozzer or some other archenemy to Wooster equilibrium.

“The Drones’ Cream Tea is this afternoon, Jeeves.”

“I see. Is it a special event, sir?”

“Well, fair to middling on the special scale. The club hosts one twice a year. We break out the blue china and fail, quite spectacularly, to live up to it. There are scones and splits and jams and creams. Upper crusts and outer crusts and all kinds of crusts. Jolly time had by one and all, don’t you know.”

I shot Jeeves a furtive—if that’s the word I want—glance, to see if he did know, but he didn’t meet my g. He simply tilted the melon, letting his big blue eyes kick up and down the chorus line of the Wooster wardrobe. Then he gave the verdict like a Bosher Street magistrate.

“The herringbone, sir.”

I was a bit surprised. I hadn’t considered the herringbone.

“I’m a bit surprised, Jeeves. I hadn’t considered the herringbone.”

“Well, it does flatter you, sir...”

The corners of the Wooster maw lifted. Nothing like starting off the mark with a bit of the ol’ grease work.

“…and though not a country tweed per se, the weave does have a bit of strength and durability to it. The pattern may prove advantageous in case of, well, unfortunate happenstance.”

I batted the eyelashes and wondered, for a moment, if Jeeves really did know. Out of sheer whimsey, I decided to test the w.’s.

“That’s very sound reasoning, Jeeves, and at these affairs, no matter how steady one’s hand and how careful one tries to be…”

“Yes, sir,” he said quite solemnly, “maintaining an impeccable façade is often a losing battle. Your new handkerchiefs were delivered yesterday. Might I suggest you carry a spare?”

“Or two?”

“Or two, sir. Then you have one to lend and one to…”

“Brush the crumbs? Dab the marmalade?”

At this, Jeeves did meet my gaze. His map was impassive, but the eyes twinkled.

“Precisely, sir.”

“All right, Jeeves. You know best. The herringbone it is.”

“Excellent, sir,” he said, taking up the gent’s armour for polishing. “It shall be ready when you finish your bath.”

“Very good, Jeeves.”

But as I sidled towards the door, a flea-bitten thought plagued me.

“Uh, Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“When I say ‘cream tea’…”

“I assume you are referring to a sexual encounter involving many persons at which the ejaculation of semen into the anal orifice features prominently.”

I sighed with relief. Jeeves knows everything.

“Thank you, Jeeves.”

“Not at all, sir.”

* * *

“Jeeves.”

“How was your afternoon, sir?”

“Permission to speak cryptically, philosophically, or thingamagummily?”

“Permission granted, sir.”

“It was good, and it was not so good.”

Jeeves gave the y.m. the north-to-south, taking in the damage to the vestments.

“The suit, sir.”

“Mightn’t be salvageable?”

“I fear not, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Jeeves. I made every effort.”

“I understand, sir.”

“The handkerchiefs, too, are a memory.”

“That was to be expected, sir. Shall I draw you a bath?”

“Toot sweet, Jeeves. And don’t spare the furnace.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I mean to say, hot, Jeeves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hot as in simmer me like mulligatawny. Steep me like a muslin bag of Darjeeling. Boil me like a chicken.”

“Yes, sir. I also took the liberty of purchasing a new tooth powder which you may wish to try. St. Dennis’ Dental Dandy, ‘It divests a mouth most randy.’”

“Jeeves!”

“Apologies, sir. A bit of an off-colour jest. But that is the name of the powder, and it is stronger than your usual preparation.”

“I’ll take it. There’s only so much an afternoon Darjeeling can mask.”

“So I’m given understand, sir.”

* * *

I sank a bit deeper into the fragrant sluice.

“Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

“That new mouth scrub and whatever you added to the bath are both the stuff to give the troops.”

“I’m gratified to hear it, sir.”

“Not the same thing, eh? The, uh, and the, uh?

“No, sir.”

“I didn’t think so.” I stirred the water with a meditative finger. “This smells a bit fruity and the other, well, is a bit like the United States Marines declaring war on your halitosis. But, Jeeves, about this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think I’ve been to my last cream tea.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Yes, the young master isn’t so young any more, and I just don’t relish it as I used to. I mean, it’s not like Boat Race night, which gives one a perennial thrill.”

Jeeves made a noise like a sheep listening to the shepherd prattle on about a drop in wool prices, but I marched on.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, there were toppin’ moments. When Bingo Little threw me on the snooker table, pumped me full, and then about a dozen lads had a lick at the drippings, for example. Or Freddie Wiggin. Sweet Infant Samuel at Prayer, Freddie Wiggin! An arse as tight as a choirboy’s before the second Sunday in Epiphany! I mean, I ate a whole split—with jam, then cream, I don’t hold with that pagan Devonshire lot—on his back, and I wasn’t the only one. And then there was Oofy.”

“Mister Prosser, sir?”

“Yes. He’s more than willing to lend a hand, or a tongue, if it comes to that, but as the club millionaire as well as the club miser, he’s got a strange notion that a toucher is, well, a toucher. He thinks that if you’ve got a prick or anything else up his arse, you’re automatically going to follow it up by asking for a tenner just to see you through to next Wednesday. But he’s as much of a goat as the rest of us, and since he knows I’m more or less flush with the ready, he asked me to, well, sit at his table, which is to say, bugger him senseless and eat it out of him. Of course, I obliged. It was the _preux_ thing to do. But, I say, Jeeves, by the time we got to Gussie…”

“Mister Fink-Nottle, sir?”

“Yes, ol’ Gussie’s always by way of being the tart of the tea. We all had at least one go. Ol’ Catsmeat had about three. I mean, you could probably fill an entire newt tank with what was pouring out of Gussie by the end of it. I mean, he was buttered and jammed and clotted and creamed and covered in sultanas…oh, where was I?”

“‘By the time we got to…’”

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Jeeves.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“By the time we got to Gussie, I was feeling a bit like Cinders after midnight about the whole thing. What’s the word?”

“Disenchanted, sir?”

“Yes, I was feeling disenchanted. Do you know, Jeeves, I don’t even like strawberry jam?”

“No, sir. Shall I amend the shopping list?”

“Please do. Apricot preserves, orange marmalade, really, anything but strawberry jam.” I sighed. “I suppose I just don’t fancy pouring myself into the herringbone, stuffing my pockets full of the cambric, just to get a breed and a seed anymore. But I must be the only one. I mean, the rest of the lads seemed quite content to have their cake and eat it, too. Well, except the fellow who wanted a cheese scone.”

Jeeves frowned at the cheese scone, then asked, “Might I make an observation and an allusion, sir?”

“Conjure as many rabbits out of your hat as you wish, Jeeves.”

“Your condition calls to mind a scene from a story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, one featuring Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.”

“Great Scott, Jeeves! I must’ve read the censored version! In which one did Sherlock Holmes tire of orgies?”

“I’m referring to the story wherein Sherlock Holmes asks Doctor Watson why he prefers the relaxing and expensive Turkish bath rather than the invigorating home-made article.”

“I’m afraid I’m not seeing or observing, Jeeves.”

“Well, sir, I am just positing that, should your current condition persist, you might, if the urge to have a cream tea struck, indulge yourself at home.”

“If you mean invite the gang here I must issue a freshly-baked _nolle prosequi_.”

“No, I meant that I might oblige, sir.”

Our eyes met, and the glances exchanged could not have been more sig.

“I shall ruminate on the matter, Jeeves.”

“Very good, sir.”

* * *

I chewed thoughtfully then exclaimed,

“Egad, Jeeves, these apricot preserves are food for the gods.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad they found satisfaction.”

“Almost as good as your tumescence up the Wooster essence. Are quite you certain there isn’t some equine in the Jeeves line?”

“Quite certain, sir.”

“But you’re hung like a dashed…blast…you’ve sheathed the sword.”

“If I may say so, sir, yours is a very fine scabbard.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, Jeeves, when the cream is, uh, served…”

“Would you like a taste, sir?”

“Yes, thank you, Jeeves. From the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“My pleasure, sir. Truly.”

“Shall I take care of myself in the meantime, Jeeves?”

“Well, sir, if you’re able to wait and would like to return the favour…”

“Jeeves! You never mentioned that you were a fan of cream teas!”

“I had two reasons for reticence, sir. One was that I, like you, had long ago become disenchanted with the tradition.”

“Yes, and what’s the other?”

“Well, sir, I also greatly feared incurring your disappointment.”

“With that a prick like that, you should be more afraid I’ll develop a monomania and set up a shrine to it in the sitting room!”

“No, you see, sir, well…”

“Out with it, man!”

“Sir, I am of the Devonshire temperament when it comes to cream teas.”

“Oh! So that’s your secret? A bit of the ol’ savage!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you convert me to your wicked, heathen ways?”

“It may come to that, sir.”

“I may come to that, you mean.”

“That, too, sir.”

“Well, I’m quite prepared to swallow and wallow—with one condition.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“That you tell me what you really think of the herringbone suit.”

“It was foul, sir. It did not become you, and I have been endeavouring to rid your wardrobe of it for months.”

“I knew it! You must really fancy cream teas.”

“I’m quite certain I will fancy yours, sir.”

He gave Wooster scones a squeeze.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
